


Intertwined

by krikkiter68



Category: Doctor Who, Fortysomething, The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: A/U, BDSM, Caning, Crossover, Doctor Who Series 3 Human Nature/The Family of Blood, Doctor Who Series 8 Dark Water/Death in Heaven, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sex, F/M, Fluff, Foursome - F/M/M/M, Grieving, Het, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay, Pegging, Slash, Vomiting, mind-reading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-02-25 00:22:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 9,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2601734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krikkiter68/pseuds/krikkiter68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The follow up to 'That Sweet Enemy'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Implied/referenced rape/non-con warning refers to Simm! Master and Tenth Doctor reference in Chapter 7.

He can’t remember how long he’s been working here.

He surveys the endless sterile white corridor whilst assessing another of the nervous, recent dead. Not a bad life, he muses on his rare moments off. Helping them transition. There’s an odd sense of job satisfaction, although he’s not convinced they’re going to such a great afterlife. Can’t let them think that, obviously.

Then again, it’s not his choice to make. It’s a job, just like any other.

His vision has improved considerably. Without his glasses, the world would normally be an indistinct, shortsighted blur. He must have at least 20/20 vision, now. Better. He can see in four dimensions. He can see things that aren’t really there, and for some reason he doesn’t find this unnerving.

He clasps cool hands behind his back as his calm gaze sweeps over the latest admission. A good-looking young man, name of Daniel Pink, flustered, asking all the usual bewildered questions he’s heard thousands of times before. The poor man’s more than usually panicky, in fact, to the point where he starts hyperventilating. He gets even more upset when introduced to the boy. Perhaps he should breathe into a bag? There are plenty of neat little packs of them, stashed under his desk. 

There’s someone trying to get in touch with this man, but the computer keeps playing up. Plus, it wouldn’t do to keep Her waiting. She’s a decent enough employer, but she’s got a bit of a temper on Her.

Goodness, but the day’s been busy. It’s all a bit of a blur, to be honest. There have been ever so many admissions to take in recently, and he feels he has to run just to keep up. She says it’s all to do with a man called the Doctor, the man who trails Death in his wake, or so She says. 

Everso exciting, though, the plane detonating in mid-air, and you should see the pretty fireball it’s created! Shame about the passengers, he thinks, nasty way to go. Ah well, it all helps to pay the rent. Keeps me off the streets. He can see his house from the balcony, once the lights are off. Wherever it is.

And then he’s standing with Her, watching one of the passengers falling. It’s him, he senses, it’s the Doctor. There’s something familiar about him, but that’s only to be expected. He’s flailing, screaming, plummeting to the ground at the regulation 32 feet per second and rising… 

Oh, good Lord. Suddenly, the Doctor’s not falling, he’s skydiving, the red lining of his dark jacket spread out like wings on a plane. Hurtling towards his time machine, which is a box, a blue box with windows. He gapes as the man digs into his pocket, finds the key, twists in mid-air, swan dives towards the doors…

His heartbeat accelerates painfully, even as he senses Her baleful gaze scorching him. It’s the most extraordinary thing he’s ever seen. Beautiful and impossible and spectacular, and ooh, just a little bit fucking cool…!

He screams with excitement, and his entire world explodes…

Ollie wakes, sprawled unceremoniously and head first on a set of wooden steps. He blinks uncertainly in the light, taking in a blurred chandelier high above him. His ribs and stomach ache fiercely, and his head hurts, too. I’ve had an accident, he thinks, dully. That was a pretty cool dream, too. Why the fuck did I wake up?

Indistinct voices surround him, and blurred faces peer closely at him. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing them to go away. A wave of nausea rises within him, as he realises where he is. Bloody hell, he thinks. I’ve passed out drunk and fallen down the stairs in some awful fucking pub. 

‘Let me through, please,’ he hears, behind the general hubbub, ‘let me have a look at him.’

The crowd parts, and he hears footsteps approaching. His heart lurches at the face that looms over him, peering at him, brow furrowed with concern. His cracked lips open, and his voice sounds like it’s coming from a very long way away.

‘M-Malc?’

The man presses long fingers against his temples, looks intently into his eyes.

‘Don’t try and get up. That’s a bad fall you’ve just had.’

‘Malc, I can explain everything, honest…’

The man traces fingers across his hairline.

‘My name’s Ronnie Pilfrey. Don’t worry, you’ll be OK. I’m a doctor.’


	2. Chapter 2

Pilfrey peers down at the lanky young man sprawling head-first across the pub stairs and kneels down beside him. His eyes are squeezed shut, and Pilfrey wonders how much pain he’s in. The man slowly opens his eyes, dark blue eyes, and attempts to focus on his face. Myopic, thinks Pilfrey. The man’s glasses are half-off, half-on, almost concealed within unruly black curls. Pilfrey reaches down, takes hold of them, folds them and puts them in his pocket. The man’s red lips part, and Pilfrey registers his prettiness, before concentrating once more.

‘M-Malc?’ the young man gasps out.

Pilfrey reaches out and touches the pulse points at his temples, gazes at his pupils. No signs of concussion: good.

‘Don’t try and get up,’ Pilfrey says. ‘That’s a bad fall you’ve just had.’

The young man looks alarmed, and Pilfrey feels bad for him. Classic disorientation, he thinks. Plus, he’s had one hell of a lot of brandy, judging by his breath.

‘Malc, I can explain everything, honest…’ the young man whimpers.

Pilfrey gently traces his fingers across the young man’s forehead, checking for bruises. Clearly, the poor guy has him mistaken for someone else. A friend, perhaps.

‘My name’s Ronnie Pilfrey,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be OK. I’m a doctor.’

He reaches behind the man’s head and gently raises it. There’s a nasty lump at the back of his head and a shallow cut, too, ruby blood dotting his fingertips. He’s been lucky, Pilfrey muses. Must have been totally relaxed when he fell.

‘Come on,’ he says, ‘let’s get you sorted out.’

The young man is precariously thin and can’t weigh over ten stone, but it’s awkward getting him to stand. With every attempt to get him upright, he collapses back down like a broken Slinky, arms and legs splaying everywhere. Eventually, Pilfrey manages to haul his long arms over his shoulders and drags him from the pub.

He bundles him into the back of his car and manages, after several attempts, to get the seat belt joined up around that long, seemingly boneless figure, then drives them to hospital.

In the waiting area, Pilfrey props the young man up on the seat. His head keeps lolling onto Pilfrey’s shoulder, and eventually Pilfrey decides it would be kindest to leave it there. He searches through Ollie’s jacket for identification until he comes across a wallet. The card in the front bears the man’s photo and ID. Oliver Reeder. Special Advisor. HM Government. Pilfrey raises his eyebrows. Good God, he thinks, he doesn’t look old enough.

He helps Ollie down into the corridor and chats with the nurses as they examine him and bandage up his head, impressed as ever by their good-humoured patience and gentleness. Ollie’s murmuring throughout, wincing in the too-bright light, not noticing when they roll up his sleeve, starting when they give him a tetanus shot, just in case. The on-duty doctor checks once again for concussion, and concludes he’s in the clear. Their diagnosis: a good night’s sleep, and make sure he’s lying on his side.

Ollie’s clearly in no state to travel anywhere on his own, he doesn’t seem capable of remembering his own name, so Pilfrey drives him back to his home and manhandles him out of the car, through the door and into the sitting room. He takes Ollie’s shoes and socks off and lays him gently on his very long and comfortable black leather sofa, rolling his supine form onto his side, propping him in place with cushions. He places plastic-covered cushions underneath Ollie's head.

He goes to the airing cupboard and retrieves the spare duvet, and lays it over Ollie. He places a washing up bowl on the floor adjacent to Ollie’s head. It’s a lovely carpet, he thinks, he would hate to see it spoiled. Pilfrey waits, just watching him, listening to his breathing slowing and slowing. He suddenly remembers something. He reaches into his inside jacket pocket and retrieves Ollie’s glasses, placing them on the occasional table at the head of the sofa. In no time at all Ollie falls fast asleep, and starts to snore, quietly. Pilfrey nods, and turns out the sitting room light, padding up the stairs to his own bed.


	3. Chapter 3

He feels like he’s in flight. Mellow slabs of golden light stream above him, dazzling his sensitised vision. A man’s talking to him, and God, he sounds like a calmer version of Malcolm, one without the frantic swearing. It’s hard to take in what he’s saying, though. The haunting strains of ‘Wichita Lineman’ are playing somewhere in the distance, and he feels the words might be sad for a reason he can’t quite grasp. It’s warm and comfortable where he’s lying though, his head lolling back on soft leather, so…

And then he’s in a room that’s too bright, and too hot. He whimpers, and tries to explain what he’s just remembered to the blurry figures around him, and he keeps apologising, and they keep talking to each other. They’re laughing, though, even when he feels a pinch in his left upper arm they keep laughing, so whatever happened can’t have been all that bad. Right?

And then there’s more flight, and sudden coldness and night air, and someone’s placing him on another soft surface. His eyes are blurry and tired, but he can definitely see him. Not-Malcolm, dressed in a dark suit, outlined in a square of light, a hand to his face. Watching him. He looks very cool. Very James Bond. 

Very…cool…indeed…

Time whirrs around him. Now, he’s in an apartment block, a very smart affair indeed. He blinks. Well, he thinks, this is all a bit extraordinary. Is this my home, now?

He walks forward cautiously. The room is dark, yet he can see millions of lights out of the vast floor to ceiling windows in front of him. Millions of tiny pin-pricks in the darkness. Remarkable. He can see them so clearly.

‘Wondered when you were coming home,’ a voice drawls from the vast sofa.

He starts, gazing around frantically for a light switch. What on the Sphere…?

‘Come,’ She murmurs. It’s not a request, it’s an order.

Timidly, he inches forward to the sofa in the middle of the room. For the second time in his life, his heart is thumping loudly, and he can’t decide whether it’s a pleasant sensation. Well, he thinks, it is what it is. I seem to be here, now. He’s facing Her, and he can see the tips of Her sharp white teeth gleaming in the semi-darkness.

‘Let me have a look at you,’ She purrs, her voice dark and sweet, like molasses. 

He slowly sits down next to Her, wincing as She raises a pale, red-taloned hand and closes it slowly around his throat, and he can feel his pulse points thudding against Her warm, soft hand. Funny, he muses, I always thought She’d feel cold. Cold and hard, like some lovely marble statue.

Her hand lingers, before stroking down his smart, dove-grey tie, down his shirt front, expertly undoing the buttons of his neat, pale jacket, before finally perching lightly against his crotch. His skin prickles. Was this in the job description? he thinks. Her hand presses absently against him, twice, and he bites his lip. 

‘What do you think?’ she whispers. ‘Do you like it, laddie?’

Well! he thinks. This is obviously a perk of the job She didn’t mention.

His eyes roll back as She strokes Her hand back and forth. Moulding him and extending him, for her own fell purposes, no doubt. 

He nods at Her, enthused, his eyes heavy-lidded. He likes it.

‘Kiss me,’ she murmurs, low and sexy, in his ear.

He leans forward, taking Her beautiful, high-cheekboned, pale face between his palms, his lips contacting Hers in the briefest of touches. With Her free hand, She grabs hold of his hair, and attacks his mouth with Hers. He moans into Her mouth, frankly aroused. She tastes of fire and honey and sin, things he only understands as concepts.

She breaks away and straddles him, chuckling at his flushed, astounded expression as She unzips his trousers, unbuttons his smart briefs, releases him into the warm, swampy air of the room. He leans forward, wanting to kiss Her again. She places a long forefinger against his lips.

‘Patience,’ She murmurs.

She raises herself, and he whimpers as She enfolds him in the heat of Her grasp. Lowers herself again, and he cries out.

Oh, he thinks. Ohh, my giddy aunt…!

She’s wet and tight, scorching around his cool length, head thrown back like a ballerina’s. He gazes up at her face, awestruck, hardening further as She rises and falls, gripping him with Her powerful, silk-stockinged thighs, fucking him like there’s no tomorrow. It’s fantastic and dangerous and too much, and he’s standing on the edge of himself, ready to fall…

Daylight. Pilfrey wakes, and his brow furrows in consternation. Someone’s splayed above him on top of the duvet, long arms twined around him. It’s the young special adviser, still dressed, hair mussed, eyes now opening with an expression of muddy confusion. The two of them stare at each other for a long moment.

‘Excuse me?’ the young man says in a croaking voice. ‘Where exactly the fuck am I?’


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for emetophobia in this chapter.

‘My name’s Ronnie Pilfrey,’ Pilfrey starts explaining, ‘I’m a doctor. I found you unconscious in the Six Bells last night…’

Ollie’s confused expression turns to one of alarm, and he claps a hand over his mouth and stumbles off the bed, lurching towards the bedroom door.

‘Other door…’ Pilfrey calls out.

Ollie stumbles the other way, opens the door to the ensuite bathroom and disappears behind it. There’s a pause. Pilfrey winces at the sound of loud, athletic retching. He hears the toilet flushing, the sound of running water and teeth being brushed. God, he thinks, I hope that’s not my toothbrush. Then silence, and finally awful, broken sobbing. Pilfrey’s skin starts prickling as he gets out of bed and walks over to the door. He knocks, gently.

‘Oliver?’

There’s no response, so he opens the door. Ollie’s standing at the mirror, clutching the sink, crying. 

‘Oliver? Can I get you anything? Glass of water?’

Ollie doesn’t seem to have heard him, so Pilfrey walks up to him, places a hand on his shoulder. Ollie turns his head and gives him a look so woeful and helpless that Pilfrey’s heart actually hurts, and the only remedy he can think of is to catch the poor falling boy in his arms before he shatters on the floor.

He wraps his arms around Ollie’s thin frame as the young man rests his head on his shoulder. Warm tears start seeping through Pilfrey’s T shirt. Ollie’s shaking slightly, and Pilfrey starts rubbing his back, trying to calm him.

‘There, there,’ Pilfrey says, slightly awkwardly. It’s cold in the bathroom and he’d really quite like to get back into bed. He notices a red toothbrush, not his, lying in the sink. He’s not used to this sort of situation, not at all, but his stroking seems to be helping, somewhat, as he feels Ollie’s breathing slowing down. He registers the younger man’s arms closing around him. Pilfrey hugs him back. A pleasant warmth starts creeping through him.

‘Ronnie? Why’s my head bandaged?’ Ollie asks in a small voice.

‘You fell down some steps. Don’t worry, it’s only a slight cut.’

‘Oh shit. I’m sorry,’ Ollie says, his back beginning to heave again.

Pilfrey pulls back slightly, looks at Ollie’s guilty, tear-streaked face, and smiles.

‘It was no trouble,’ he murmurs.

Ollie looks back at him, his expression a silent question. His tear-washed eyes are a startling deep cobalt and his lips are reddened, and before either of them are aware of it, they’re leaning in. 

Ollie’s grip tightens on Pilfrey’s back and their lips touch. Pilfrey sighs as he tastes Ollie’s mint-flavoured mouth, and his eyes close as Ollie takes his face between his palms and starts kisses him passionately. Pilfrey strokes down Ollie’s back, relishing the shudder of desire as he does so.

Pilfrey reluctantly breaks the kiss, strokes a stray black curl back from Ollie’s face.

‘Feeling better now?’ Pilfrey says, gently.

The young man smiles at him for the first time, and Pilfrey’s heart flutters slightly.

‘Yeah,’ Ollie says in a breathy voice, and leans in to kiss Pilfrey again. He starts as he feels one of Ollie’s hands stroking across the front of his boxer shorts. He trails kisses up Ollie’s slender neck, bites gently at his ear lobe.

‘Bed?’ he whispers.

‘Thought you’d never ask,’ Ollie murmurs. Pilfrey grins.

Back in the bedroom, Pilfrey strips off his t shirt and boxers and climbs into bed, watching Ollie undressing. Ollie unbuttons his shirt, letting it fall to the floor and Pilfrey’s eyes widen in surprise at the whip marks and scars on Ollie’s back. Naked now, Ollie slides into bed next to him, and the two of them embrace and kiss.

‘What do you want me to do?’ Pilfrey murmurs, his hands sliding down Ollie’s back.

‘Just fuck me,’ Ollie whispers in his ear. ‘Now.’

Pilfrey nods, opens the drawer next to the bed and retrieves a condom and the lube. He’s never penetrated another man before, but there’s a first time for everything, and his cock certainly approves of the idea. Ollie’s watching him as he prepares himself, practically panting with need as he lies back on the bed and spreads his long legs, his erect cock pressed hard against his stomach. Pilfrey’s heart beats faster at the sight, aroused and flattered that anyone should want him so much.

He lines himself up, pushes in slowly, surrounded by tight, wet heat, and Ollie’s pornographic moan almost undoes him. He kisses Ollie as the young man wraps his legs around his hips and claws at his back, begs him to go harder, go faster. Pilfrey speeds up, propped on his elbows, heart hammering at the sight of Ollie frantically stroking himself beneath him. He closes his eyes, trying to hold on, losing himself as the young man cries out, come streaking his stomach, stars bursting behind his eyelids, so close, now, as far away, two intertwined figures cry out in unison.

‘Oliver!’ Pilfrey shouts as he comes, hard, and collapses. He lies on top of Ollie, the two of them panting hard as they recover. Pilfrey raises his head and gazes at Ollie’s flushed face. Ollie opens his eyes and grins tiredly.

‘I think it's OK for you to call me Ollie now,’ he says.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains spoilers for 'Death in Heaven'.

The Doctor’s falling. His hearts are pounding hard in his ears and he screams wildly as he plummets from the exploding plane, blood red clouds blooming horribly above him. Twisting in mid air, he locates the key, hearts beating harder still as the TARDIS swoops down to save him. He’d laugh with relief, but this is hardly the time or place for laughing. The doors open and he dives in.

On the Sphere, Seb is sitting awkwardly on the sofa, trousers half on, half off, as, still straddling him, She rests her full weight across his body. She’s sleeping soundly, Her head resting heavily on his shoulder. Well, why not, he thinks, the poor love’s gone and exhausted Herself. He toys with the idea of stroking Her glossy dark hair, tangling his long fingers in all that perfectly lovely softness, but decides against it, the same way he might decide not to stroke a sleeping wolf’s fur. She might well be hungry when She wakes up, and he doesn’t fancy the notion of being Her breakfast.

Later still, and the Doctor and Clara are standing in an empty graveyard, underneath a darkening sky. Mist is beginning to twine between the gravestones. It’s so cold they can see their breath streaming before them. Clara stands, head bowed, staring into space. The Doctor gazes at her for a long moment, before walking up behind her and resting a long hand on her shoulder.

‘It’s OK, Doctor,’ she says, quietly, ‘he was already dead.’

They walk off to the TARDIS together, and he softly closes the door behind them. She leans against the console, gazing within its depths, not seeming to see anything at all.

‘Clara?’ the Doctor says, gently.

She doesn’t answer, so he walks up to her, awkwardly extends his arms, wraps them around her, the way he’s felt her do it. She turns in his grip, lays her head against his chest. He kisses her forehead. She’s crying, very quietly, and he hears the TARDIS humming in sympathy.

He takes her hand, leads her through the winding corridors and up to a room he knows the TARDIS has created for her. Small and intimate, dominated by a huge, ornate yet comfortable four poster bed, surrounded by white drapes covered in delicate silver and powder blue patterns. Restful for the eyes, he thinks. She sits down on the bed, and he turns to go.

‘Doctor?’ she says, in a choked whisper.

He turns back to her, stares.

‘Don’t…please don’t leave me alone…’ she whispers, haltingly.

He sits down on the bed next to her, and slowly, slowly touches her shoulder, and she raises her head, looking into his eyes. Her eyes huge, dark and shiny with tears, beseeching, and both his hearts hurt as he gazes at her. He closes his eyes, overwhelmed.

My darling, he thinks, my darling, darling Impossible Girl…

But she’s real. She rests her face against his, eyelashes tickling his skin, her breath burning his cheek. He feels her warm hand ghosting over his face, up into his thick silver hair and somehow it feels like the most natural thing in the world. Her warm, wet lips touch his, and he surrenders, letting her set the pace. His old friend’s kiss, the Master’s kiss, or Missy’s, rather, was harsh, attacking, spiteful, but this is different. It’s unexpected, yet comforting and familiar. It’s something he’s always been waiting for, he realises, with a shiver.

She deepens the kiss, and he wraps his long arms around her back, pulls her down gently with him, until her slight weight is lying over him, almost scorching in her warmth. She lands feather-light kisses over his face, and he sighs, hardly daring to look at her in case she’s just a dream after all.

He opens his eyes, of course, and gazes at her, his face softening into the tenderest smile. She’s smiling back at him, and he hesitates. He’s prepared to get up right now and leave, if she wishes. It’s all up to her. But he’s hoping she wants him to stay.

‘Doctor,’ she whispers into his hair. ‘Make love to me.’

He kisses her, and stars start whirling in his head. How long has it been since he’s felt anything like this? Years, and more years. 

‘Whatever you want, Clara,’ he whispers, relishing her breathy giggle in response.

 

Pilfrey wakes, surrounded by Ollie, who’s sprawled across him, tousled head tucked into the crook of his neck like a ridiculously affectionate sleeping cat. For a second, he considers transferring Ollie over to one side of the bed and getting up, then decides against it. I’m not on call just yet, he thinks, as he closes his eyes again, and smiles. No, just this once I’m gonna be Ronnie, he thinks. Not just a doctor.


	6. Chapter 6

Far away, the Doctor strokes Clara’s glossy, nut-brown locks, his eyes fluttering shut as she peppers his face with tiny, butterfly kisses that land on his mouth, his nose, his closed eyelids. His hands ghost over the silky black material of her dress, feeling her soft warmth underneath it. Such a melancholy colour on her, he thinks, as he resolves to make her happy for the rest of her life. 

He reaches up to the nape of her neck, fingertips stroking gently over the soft, fine strands at the start of her hairline. Clara’s kissing his mouth, now, her soft tongue exploring his, and he decides he likes it. He likes it a lot.

Clara’s small, smooth hands slide underneath his, and he lets out a small moan of protest as she lifts herself up, depriving him of her warmth.

‘Clara?’

She smiles down at him, and reaches behind her neck.

‘I’m taking the dress off, Doctor,’ she says, as she starts drawing down the zip.

‘Good,’ he murmurs. ‘It doesn’t suit you. It’s too sad.’

He gazes up at her, wonderingly, as she pulls the dress off over her head. She quirks her eyebrows into a question mark.

‘Doctor? Are you going to take your clothes off, too?’

The Doctor is still staring up at her, transfixed, thinking she’s one of the most beautiful humans he’s ever seen. 

‘It’s what people usually do,’ she says gently.

‘Ah,’ says the Doctor. ‘Yes. I knew that.’

She helps him, unlacing his boots as he shucks off his jackets and undoes his shirt buttons. He clears his throat.

‘It’s…it’s been a long time for me…’

Pulling off his trousers, she plants a kiss on one of his long, pale, slender thighs.

‘I know,’ she says.

When they’re both naked, she draws the covers over them both. They lie close and still together for a while, just kissing, for several minutes. Clara starts stroking down his spine, inhaling the wonderful metal and musk scent of his hair, and he clasps the small of her back in turn, holding her tighter against him. She kisses him deeper, moaning appreciatively as she feels his erection pressing against her hip.

She clasps one of her soft hands around his cock, and his breath hitches. Good God, she thinks, he’s huge. She can feel both pulses thudding against her palm as he twitches in her grasp, causing desire to flood through her, and she clasps the back of his head, pulling him towards her and kissing him, passionately.

‘Doctor,’ she whispers, ‘I’ve got to have you inside me, right now.’

‘Ah,’ he says, uncertain. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I’ve never…’ she murmurs, between kisses, ‘been more certain…of anything…in my whole life…’

He bites his lips, recalling exactly how long that would be for her.

‘OK, then,’ he murmurs.

‘Lie still,’ she says, quietly. 

And he does, watching as she takes hold of him and directs him, pressing herself onto him, guiding and stroking and gliding along his length. His head hits the pillow. His enhanced sense of smell can guess at her arousal, and he can tell, by her shining eyes and parted lips, how much she wants this union.

It’s something he’s nearly forgotten. Something lovely, a faraway dream.

He reaches up and strokes her cheek.

‘Really?’

She takes his long right hand in hers, lifts it to her lips, kisses it.

‘Shut up, Doctor,’ she says, softly.

‘OK.’

She takes hold of his cock, and gasps as she sinks down onto his length. Her muscles flutter around him, and he gasps, too, instinct propelling him upward, needing to embrace her. His arms snake around her back.

They hold each other, faces pressed against each other’s necks, shifting around each other, beginning to move.

 

Far away, Missy watches Seb as he showers, her eyes heavy-lidded. It’ll be a while until he sleeps. She’ll make sure of that.


	7. Chapter 7

She stretches a hand to the side table and picks up her shell-shaped hand mirror, checks her make-up, and smiles. Immaculate, she thinks. She runs her hand down the black satin of her corset, mapping out her new, delicate curves from high, cantilevered breasts to soft, pale thigh, fringed with black lace. Stretches the elastic of her suspender belt, and relishing the smack it makes. Her free, black-gloved hand tightens on the leash, giving it a friendly yet pointed tug.

She gazes down at the naked figure on its hands and knees before her, takes in the graceful line of its long, slender back, the way the muscles tremble slightly in the delicate arms, the way those pretty, long-lashed eyes are fixed on the carpet, not daring to look round. It’s her property, and she’s going to enjoy it in her own sweet time.

Her hand strokes between her legs, running a long, warm forefinger along the large, unfamiliar yet fully sensate object jutting from her crotch, feeling it shiver and palpitate in her delicious, still-unfamiliar wetness. Oh yes, she thinks, as it reads her, becomes part of her, starts throbbing in time with her heartbeats, this is top of the range. 

She’ll feel every single thing.

Grinning, she reaches for the tube on the side table, removes the glove from her right hand, squeezes a liberal amount of the slippery substance into her palm. She moans and arches as the cold gel tingles all the way down her length and all the way through her, until goosebumps are rising on her beautiful back. How did that old Earth ballad go, she thinks… 

“Double your pleasure, double your fun,” she sings, softly.

She takes a gold silk-covered bolster cushion from the nearby sofa, and kneels behind the slender figure on the floor. Slowly, deliberately, she wipes her gel-smeared right hand on its back until it’s reasonably dry, then reaches for her glove, slips it on. She takes hold of the pale shoulder in front of her, tightening her grip until her subject gasps.

‘Back, darling,’ she coos.

She purrs with delight as he obeys her, pressing against the head of her new cock, his breath hitching as she breaches him. She hisses as she feels herself sinking into his hot, deliciously tight depths as he backs onto her, and she tugs on the leash until, glory be, she’s in all the way, in so deeply she can actually feel him panting.

She reaches forward, smiling as she reaches beneath him and caresses his chest, relishing his wince as she lightly pinches one nipple, then the other.

‘Do you like it, sweetheart?’ she coos at him.

He twists his head until he’s looking up at her, and both her hearts leap. He looks wanton, overcome, lips red and carnivorous, and she hisses again at his moan as she swells inside him.

‘Yeah,’ he says, the word coming out as a yelp.

She closes her eyes, remembering the Doctor in his tenth incarnation, how she’d kept him bound and helpless on that chair. How his dark eyes had burned into her own as she took him. Forgiving and challenging all at once. It had driven her mad, all that damned brinkmanship, all the time.

No such problems with this one, she thinks. So much more obedient. She circles a black-leather covered finger around one sensitive nipple, then the other.

‘What do you want me to do, darling?’ she whispers in her husky voice. ‘Tell me…’

‘Please…’ the man gasps, ‘Please…fuck me…’

Wonderingly, she caresses a delicate line down his flat belly, strokes up and down his swollen cock, pausing to rub at the leather ring at its base. She can take her time, she thinks, come as often as she likes, he’ll be hard for hours and hours. 

She slaps his arse, hard, and he moans and tightens around her, deliciously. She fists a hand in his hair, grinning. She’s been looking forward to this all day.

‘Brace yourself, laddie,’ she whispers, and he cries out as she begins to move.

 

Pilfrey wakes with a start. Ollie’s lying next to him, gasping, eyes wide open and unseeing.

‘What is it?’

Ollie doesn’t answer, but his hips are moving, thrusting into empty air. 

‘Please…’ Ollie pleads in a high, soft voice.

He’s in a waking dream. Pilfrey strokes down his naked torso and starts as Ollie takes hold of his hand.

‘It’s OK…’ he whispers in Ollie’s ear. 

Ollie, unseeing, presses Pilfrey's hand against himself and thrusts upwards until, far away, Missy takes pity on him and unclasps the cock ring, and Ollie comes, gasping, against Pilfrey’s palm.

Ollie lies back, relaxing and curling into Pilfrey’s warmth, as the older man strokes his hair, holding him close as he drifts into a deep sleep.

 

Missy, totally spent, relaxes back onto the cushions, Seb’s head cradled between her breasts. Testing, she places her palms either side of his head, places her forehead against hers, and tries to read his thoughts.

And she frowns incredulously at what she sees there.


	8. Chapter 8

“Feet off the furniture, you Oxbridge twat! You’re not on a punt now!” – Malcolm Tucker.

Ollie feels the warmth of the sun on his face, and opens his eyes, blinking in the bright light. He has no idea where he is, but that’s OK. He’s lying on a punt which rocks softly back and forth, green water gently slapping the wooden sides. Bulrushes tower above him, a spare frond tickling his cheek. 

He’s not alone; he can feel a long, firm leg pressing against his own. He turns his head, and the handsome man next to him quirks a smile.

‘Did you have a good sleep, young Oliver?’ the man says.

Ollie blinks at him in confusion, and then he remembers: of course, it’s that teacher he met, one week ago. John, his name is. They played tennis together. Probably. He smiles back.

‘Wonderful, thanks. Gorgeous day, isn’t it?’

‘It certainly is. It’s a wonderful spot, this. No one around for miles and miles.’

Ollie sits up, and glances around at the lush, green, undulating countryside, stretching into the distance. There’s not a sound, save for the twittering of distant birds, the slap of water and their own breathing. His glasses feel strange, and he takes them off and peers at them. They’re very old-fashioned, circular and wire-rimmed with thick lenses, and he lets out a giggle; God, I must look like a right tit, he thinks. He lays them down on the bow. John gazes at him, a slight breeze stroking his dark-brown hair.

‘Can…can I tell you something, Oliver?’ John says, his voice slightly breathless.

‘Course, yeah,’ Ollie says, turning to face him. 

John’s actually blushing, and he looks down at the bottom of the boat, swallows hard, looks up again. In the strong sunlight, Ollie can see the amber fires within John’s dark eyes.

‘I was watching you sleep, Oliver. And you looked…you looked so very beautiful…’

‘Oh. Ah…thank you…’ Ollie says, his own cheeks starting to burn faintly. God, he thinks, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. Pretty much the only nice thing, in fact. John reaches up, strokes a stray curl from Ollie’s face with a long hand.

‘Please…please can I kiss you?’ John says, nervously.

‘Course you can,’ Ollie says, leaning forward.

He lies down again beside John, and takes hold of his face, tangling his fingers in the older man’s hair, closing his eyes as John’s soft lips contact his own.

John breaths out a sigh as, hesitantly, his tongue begins to move within Ollie’s mouth, and Ollie kisses him back, his hands sliding down over the prickly tweed of John’s jacket.

Ollie finally breaks the kiss, to a soft whine of protest from John, and leaves a trail of butterfly kisses up to John’s ear.

‘You must be hot,’ he whispers, fumbling with John’s jacket buttons, ‘let me take this off for you…’

John lifts his arms, letting Ollie remove his jacket, stroking down Ollie’s back. Ollie lays his forehead against John’s, and his eyes snap wide open. Well, he thinks, this is something bloody new…

He can see John’s thoughts, stacked against each other. It’s as if he’s standing in the interior of a grand old house, gazing into a room that leads into countless other rooms. Uppermost in John’s subconscious, Ollie can see John dressed in a cape and mortarboard. He can see himself bent over a nearby desk. John’s caning him, sternly telling him he’s a debauched, wicked young man. He moans, appreciatively, his cock swelling still further.

‘John Smith,’ he murmurs against John’s cheek, ‘you’ve got some hidden fucking depths, haven’t you?’

John gasps at the younger man’s profanity and bites his lip, suppressing a moan as Ollie unbuttons the front of his trousers and releases him. Ollie strokes the firm, impressive length, swallowing John’s cries as he kisses him. He undoes his own trousers with his free hand, spits into his palm and wraps it around them both their cocks.

He can feel John shaking as he strokes faster, and he can tell it won’t be long for either of them. He grins against John’s mouth as he feels the other man grinding hard against him, presses his forehead against his sweating hair, sees himself in John’s mind being roughly fucked, pressed against the hard wood of the desk.

John moans loudly into Ollie’s mouth as he comes, and Olllie thrusts hard against him, milking him dry, until stars burst at the corner of his vision and he shudders with ecstasy, crying out. Nearby, a startled swan takes flight, with loud splashes and a great whirring of wings.

They drift off holding each other, the boat rocking them, the rushes surrounding them fading and blurring into green dreams.

John wakes in darkness, his cheeks flushing. A nocturnal emission, he thinks, sighing. And what a damned strange dream, he muses. He’s not too concerned, though – he’s quite a modern chap, after all, and this is 1913, not the Dark Ages. It was a pleasurable dream, he thinks, in its own way, and, now he thinks of it, no stranger than the other dreams he’s had recently in which he’s a time-traveller, a daredevil, a madman. He’s drawn the dreams in his journal, but for the sake of propriety, he had better not sketch the latest one. All sorts of questions might be asked.

Perhaps he could discuss it all, with his ever-kind and loyal Martha? And, perhaps, his growing love for Joan?


	9. Chapter 9

The Twelfth Doctor wakes to find himself naked and bound hand and foot by leather straps to someone’s four-poster bed. He frowns up at the crimson and gold velvet swags and canopy in consternation. Who, or what, could have done such a thing, he wonders. Glancing sideways, he can see his suit, folded and placed neatly on an ornate chair, his black boots lined up underneath it. No point in trying to reach for the sonic screwdriver then, he muses.

The room is lit by hundreds of flickering candles, and the sensuous scents of jasmine, sandlewood and lilac assail his sensitive nostrils. He relaxes backwards, marginally. It was probably Missy, he thinks. It would hardly be the first time she’s tied him up during their long association, after all.

He cranes his neck as the door creaks open, and his eyes widen as he sees who’s responsible for his present plight.

 

Far away, Estelle grins as she perches on Pilfrey’s dining table, and crosses her long legs, treating her admirers to a flash of creamy, black-stockinged thigh underneath her short black dress.

‘OK, boys,’ she purrs, eyeing them all, ‘who’s going to be first?’

Pilfrey glances around at Jamie and Malcolm, and his cheeks flush at the sight of their predatory eyes.

‘Obviously gonna be you, isn’t it, Ronnie?’ Malcolm murmurs, as he clasps Jamie from behind, runs a slim hand down his shirt front. 

Pilfrey gulps, steps forward, and seizes Estelle in his arms, closing his eyes as her mouth attacks his. He reaches around, fumbling for the zip at the back of her dress, as she wraps her thighs around his slender hips, hardening further as he feels her heat against his crotch. No knickers, then, he thinks. Oh, Christ, darling.

‘Sofa,’ he mumbles against her neck, between gasps.

She giggles, her breath catching as he takes a firm hold of her hips, and she shrieks in delight as he picks her up and stumbles towards the sofa, the two of them collapsing onto the soft cushions, her glossy dark curls bouncing as she lands. She pulls his head down by the hair and kisses him.

 

‘Doctor!’ Rose murmurs. ‘God. You’re looking good…’

‘Ah…’ the Doctor responds. He’d say more, but his mind seems to have short-circuited. It’s still Rose, his Rose, but clad in the kind of crimson silk underwear currently deemed illegal in six galaxies. She smiles, brighter than the sun. She glances down at him, looks up again, that smile turning delightfully wicked. He flushes. She obviously likes what she sees.

‘Well? Haven’t you got anything to say, after all this time?’

He smiles back. Rassilon, but it’s good to see her. She can tie him up as often as she likes, he decides.

‘Not right now,’ he murmurs, the words tailing off into a gasp as she takes him in a gentle grip. He feels his two pulses thudding against her soft palm. Gasps as she raises herself, and her hot, tight heat starts to engulf him, a shaft of sunlight backlighting her golden hair until she looks like she’s burning.

 

Pilfrey groans as he braces his hands against black leather and thrusts hard inside Estelle, who’s currently writhing beneath him, her slender ankles locked around his neck, stilettos still on, and he flushes with pride at the moans of pleasure she’s giving him. It feels like applause, he thinks, as he turns his head towards Jamie, who growls, seizes his hair and kisses him savagely. Jamie’s shirt and trousers have been messily pulled open, and his huge, beautiful blue eyes flutter shut as Malcolm, who’s kneeling and nibbling each of Estelle’s pebbled nipples in turn, wraps a long hand around Jamie’s cock and starts stroking. Pilfrey’s eyes close as he moans into Jamie’s mouth, willing himself to hold on, he fears it won’t last much longer if Estelle keeps bucking against him like that…

The Doctor gazes up at Rose, who rises and falls on him with increasing speed, burning brighter every passing second. Burning him up, but he doesn’t care. She could set him on fire, right then and there, annihilate him, reduce him to smoke and ashes, and he’d still love her, even as his light faded and failed.

He cries out as he comes in pulsing waves, watching as her eyes open, golden light streaming out towards him until it’s too bright to see…

 

Rose wakes with a cry, her heart racing. It’s dark again. She turns her head to see her husband reaching towards her. He strokes her hair back from her face.

‘You OK? Bad dream?’ he murmurs. ‘What was it?’

‘No,’ she whispers. ‘It was about you. They’re always about you.’

He wraps his long arms around her, rocking her as they both drift back to sleep.

 

Pilfrey feels soft kisses brushing his neck, and he opens his eyes. Ollie grins up at him. 

‘That sounded like a good dream,’ Ollie murmurs, kissing a line down Pilfrey’s chest. Pilfrey grins.

‘You bet your fuckin’ arse it was,’ he murmurs back, seizing Ollie’s shoulders. 

Ollie yells and laughs as Pilfrey turns him over onto his back and kisses him, hard.


	10. Chapter 10

Pilfrey eventually breaks the kiss, and Ollie gazes up at him, eyes shining as his bedmate grasps his skinny wrists and pins him down on the mattress.

‘Think you’re strong, do you?’ he murmurs. 

He struggles briefly, but Pilfrey’s got the advantage, so he changes tack and wraps his long legs around Pilfrey’s waist, trying to tip him sideways. Pilfrey laughs.

‘Who do you think dragged you from the pub, you cheeky sod?’ he gasps, struggling.

‘Dunno. I thought maybe I’d time-travelled…’ Ollie says, breaking off into giggles.

‘Right, that does it…’

Ollie yelps as Pilfrey seizes him in his arms, and he instinctively throws his arms around Pilfrey’s back, legs clinging around his waist as the older man drags him off the bed and starts staggering towards the bathroom. A sleek black something darts through the bedroom door and straight under Pilfrey’s feet, and the world suddenly inverts with a bang and a jolt.

‘Christ!’ Pilfrey shouts, stunned, his vision suddenly full of ceiling, ‘Are you OK?’

Ollie’s still laughing, though, and Pilfrey’s racing heartbeat calms a little.

‘Fine. I’m an expert in crash-landing, didn’t you know that? I landed on the duvet. Though what it’s doing on the floor is anyone’s guess.’ 

And then Pilfrey laughs too, relieved.

‘Well, I guess we were a bit, ah, busy last night…’

‘Aww, cute. You’re blushing,’ Ollie says.

He leans over, cups Pilfrey’s flushed cheeks in his long hands and kisses him, slowly. Then looks towards the bed and raises his eyebrows. A black cat glares back at him from the pillows, jade eyes glinting in the morning sunlight, before neatly folding its paws and settling down to sleep. 

‘Ah, him,’ Pilfrey says, following Ollie’s eyeline. ‘Sebastian. He just wandered in one day. He seems to have adopted me, now.’

‘Bit like me, then.’

‘Yeah. You’re a stray, too. Come on,’ Pilfrey says, kissing Ollie’s forehead, ‘I think we could both do with a shower.’

 

Far away, Missy tightens the spiked collar around a kneeling Seb’s neck, attaches the thin black leather leash to the metal ring at its front, then leans back again on the divan to admire her handiwork.

‘That’s better, darling,’ she murmurs. 

His new outfit’s very fetching, she thinks. Tight black leather all over, a classic. It’s just one of the things that stops her life from being boring. She reaches forward and seizes his hair, pulls it, and he staggers towards her on his knees. She twists her fingers in his curls, ruffles them sharply, revelling in his choked gasp.

‘All fluffy,’ she murmurs, bending down, planting a crimson heart of lipstick on his flushed cheek.

She reaches down, picks up her sonic screwdriver, activates it, points it at the pile of dove-grey clothing on the floor, and smiles as the clothes burst into flame, twist in mid-air, fall down again into ashes. He doesn’t even flinch. Oh, she’ll have fun training this one. She spreads her legs, watching his pupils inflate as he inhales her scent, then gives the leash a little tug.

‘Down,’ she commands him. 

 

In the shower, Pilfrey’s trying to unwind the bandage from Ollie’s soaked hair, but he keeps being distracted by Ollie’s attempts to kiss him.

‘Stop that,’ Pilfrey mutters, trying to adopt a stern tone but breaking into giggles all the same, ‘it’s gotta come off.’ Ollie pouts at him.

‘Does it have to? I think it makes me look like a pirate.’

Pilfrey laughs, then gasps as Ollie pushes him against the shower wall and snogs him like there’s no tomorrow.

‘Silly boy,’ he whispers against Ollie’s cheek when the younger man finally, finally breaks the kiss. Ollie grins back at him.

‘Immensely talented boy, don’t you mean?’

‘Really?’ Pilfrey says, stroking a line down Ollie’s slim, slippery back.

‘Absolutely. Let me show you,’ Ollie murmurs, dropping suddenly to his knees on the shower floor.

Pilfrey gasps again as Ollie’s warm, wet mouth engulfs his stiff cock and just keeps going. 

Christ, he thinks, he wasn’t bloody kidding. If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up again.

He turns his face up towards the hot, streaming jets of water, his eyes closing in bliss, losing himself until, far away, Missy clasps her captive’s hair with her gloved hand and cries out.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after the events of 'Last Christmas' - for Twelve and Clara. Timelines...

The previous night

The Twelfth Doctor’s sitting in his armchair, overlooking the shimmering lights within the TARDIS console, with Clara curled up in his lap, her face resting in the crook of his shoulder. He strokes her hair gently.

‘You OK now?’ he murmurs.

‘Yeah,’ she whispers back. ‘I’m glad I saw Danny one last time.’

He doesn’t answer, because there’s nothing more to say, and hugs her tighter, instead. He feels her sigh, and he rests his forehead against hers. They stay like that for several moments, the only sound the soft thrum of the TARDIS and the two of them breathing.

Then suddenly, there’s a jolt, and the controls sound out a confused whine.

‘What - ?’ the Doctor exclaims. He strokes a reassuring line down Clara’s back, picks her up and gently sets her on her feet, then dashes down to the monitors. He turns the dials, presses a couple of switches, and peers closely at the screen.

‘What’s happened? Where are we?’ she says, hurrying to his side.

‘We’re in London. She’s landed a bit heavily, I think. The threads…’ he says, tailing off, running a hand over the screen as if to comfort it.

‘What threads, Doctor?’

‘It looks like the threads of several lives…they’ve just become intertwined. Come on.’

He takes her hand, and opens the door.

They step out onto the green at Parliament Square, where the TARDIS has, indeed, landed rather heavily, and is currently sitting in a small crater. The sky is dark, it’s raining, and The Doctor instinctively raises his coat over Clara’s head to shield her. On the far, rain-washed streets, they can see people gazing around in some consternation.

‘Oi! YOU! What the FUCK d’ye think ye’re doin’?’ someone yells, and they turn to see an irate, dark-suited man from Motherwell storming towards them through the thudding raindrops. The Doctor raises his eyebrows: he hadn’t expected this sort of reaction, but he’s otherwise unfazed, and, he notes with pride, Clara’s not afraid either.

‘Jamie,’ the man’s taller companion murmurs, laying a restraining hand on his shoulder, ‘calm the fuck down, OK? I’ll handle this one.’ The shorter man subsides, muttering.

Clara’s eyes widen: the black-coated man approaching them looks so very similar to the Doctor, but very, very much angrier.

‘Ye do know ye’re not supposed to land here, don’t ye?’ he snaps at the Doctor.

‘So sorry. It wasn’t intentional. My ship’s malfunctioning. And you are…?’ the Doctor asks, his head on one side.

‘Malcolm Tucker. Director of Communications to Her Majesty’s Government. I know who you are.’

‘Ah. I thought you looked familiar. So…sorry to have disturbed you. We’ll leave you in peace. Come on, Clara,’ he says, turning to leave, opening the door.

Clara smiles at Malcolm, and the last thing she sees before the door closes is his thunderous scowl and his companion scurrying to his side.

‘What the livin’ fuck…’ Jamie gasps as the TARDIS wheezes and dematerialises in front of them. ‘Was that an…?’

‘Yeah,’ Malcolm says. ‘Do not tell that to anyone. Ever. Come on,’ he says, turning to leave, ‘we’ll get Terri to write an urgent fuckin’ press release, right now.’

Today

Ollie’s sprawling on Pilfrey’s sofa in a borrowed dressing gown, relaxing whilst Pilfrey cooks. Pilfrey’s expecting guests for dinner, later. He picks up the remote and starts flicking through the channels. He reaches a news channel, and starts.

‘…an unprecedented earth tremor was felt yesterday in central London,’ the newsreader says, ‘No injuries have been reported, but some buildings in Westminster and Mayfair were said to have suffered minor structural damage, with loss of slates from roofs and…’

‘Ronnie?’ Ollie calls.

Pilfrey emerges, wearing a striped apron and brandishing a wooden spoon, which he licks, quickly.

‘Yeah?’

‘Was there a minor earthquake yesterday in London? I seem to have completely missed it.’

‘There was. When you were in the Six Bells. I was passing when the pavement started shaking, ran in and saw you crashing down the stairs. You were completely out of it.’

‘Ah,’ Ollie says, thoughtfully. ‘Well. There’s worse ways to meet, I suppose. That cooking smells great, by the way.’

‘Thanks,’ Pilfrey murmurs, bending down to kiss him.


	12. Chapter 12

It’s 8pm. Pilfrey’s standing at the cooker, turning over the herbed roast potatoes sizzling in their shallow dish. Ollie’s standing behind him, long arms twined round Pilfrey’s chest, resting his chin on the older man’s shoulder. 

‘Who’s coming, then?’ Ollie murmurs into Pilfrey’s neck.

Pilfrey kisses Ollie’s cheek.

‘Just some friends of mine,’ Pilfrey says, his eyebrows arching mischievously. ‘We’ll all be coming at some point.’

‘Oh, I see. That sort of party, is it?’ Ollie says, running his tongue over Pilfrey’s ear.

‘Well, it was certainly interesting last time. Later, sweetheart,’ Pilfrey whispers, placing his hand over Ollie’s as it slides down his torso. The doorbell rings.

‘I’ll go,’ Ollie says, buzzing as he walks to the front door and opening it, to the sight of Malcolm and Jamie. His mouth drops open, and he slams it shut again, leaning back against it and breathing hard.

‘Oh fuuuuuucckk….!’ Ollie wails, and Pilfrey hurries from the kitchen. 

‘What is it?’ Pilfrey asks, concerned.

‘Didn’t know it was them…oh Christ, Ronnie, they’re gonna kill me…’ Ollie babbles at him.

Pilfrey gives him a reassuring kiss, then opens the door.

‘Hi,’ he says, ushering in a bemused Malcolm and Jamie, and a smiling Sam. ‘Do come in. Dinner’s nearly ready.’

‘Hi yerself,’ Malcolm says, eyeing Ollie narrowly. ‘See ye’ve got a fugitive with ye, Ronnie.’

‘Malcolm, I can explain…’

‘Nae need,’ Jamie says, grinning suddenly. ‘We ken. There has been,’ he says, cracking his knuckles as Malcolm gives him a small, sideways smirk, ‘shall we say, a full and frank exchange of views wi’ that fucker Cal Richards. He won’t be botherin’ ye again, ‘cause he knows what’ll happen if he goes anywhere near ye.’

‘Ah. Oh. Thanks, Jamie.’

‘Don’t mention it, Poxbridge.’

Later

Sam sips her red wine and giggles at the sight in front of her on the oiled Twister mat, as its four occupants struggle to remain upright. She tosses the dice.

‘Left foot, green,’ she calls out, and laughs out loud as they contort themselves and Ollie, already disadvantaged due to being blindfolded, collapses forward with a yelp. Pilfrey’s foot skids and he stumbles, landing on Ollie. Ollie twists around and kisses him, as Jamie presses Malcolm down onto the mat, a firm, muscled thigh nudging his legs apart.

‘Boys!’ Sam says, setting down her glass, ‘Don’t leave me out, will you?’

‘Well, come the fuck over then, lass,’ Jamie calls. 

Malcolm pulls him down and shuts him up with a kiss. Sam smiles as she removes her knickers and walks over to them, gracefully setting herself down beside them.

Ollie feels his wrists being pinned down on the mat, letting each of them take turns kissing him, gasping as a long, slippery hand takes hold of his cock, stroking it rhythmically. He recognises Sam’s kiss from the way her soaking hair trails across his skin, but not exactly who it is who prises his legs far apart. Nor who it is who breaches him suddenly, setting his body on fire with searing pleasure and pain. He gasps, his back arching, willingly surrendering himself.

‘Feeling fuckin’ better then, twat?’ husks a voice in his ear. It can only be Malcolm.

‘Much better,’ Ollie gasps out.

 

Missy stretches herself out on her divan, glancing down at her sleeping leather-clad plaything twined around her feet, head resting against her boot. She thinks about going to bed. Maybe, if Seb’s a very good boy, she’ll let him sleep at the foot of it. 

She closes her eyes and thinks about the Doctor, and how she misses him.

 

The Doctor arranges the covers over a sleeping Clara, and kisses her forehead. He softly turns off the light, standing for a moment in the doorway, gazing at her face, before closing the door and wandering down the stairs to the console. There’s nothing but a series of gentle whirrs and thrums for a moment. And then, a sound like a mechanical heartbeat, getting louder and louder. His forehead furrows.

Three loud knocks sound at the doors, and he frowns as he stalks towards them. Who the hell could that be, he thinks.

He flings the doors open, and his eyebrows meet his hairline at the sight of the figure standing, grinning widely, arms insouciantly crossed, in the doorway.

‘Hi Doctor!’ cries Captain Jack Harkness. ‘My, don’t you look distinguished! Didya miss me?’

 

THE END

TO BE CONTINUED!


End file.
